


Three on a Match

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Fluff, Food Kink, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slow Burn, Threesome - F/M/M, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby bucky, trash trash trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-14 11:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8012119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha and Steve both take the care and feeding of Bucky Barnes very seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superstringtheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/gifts).



> This will be three chapters of utterly unrepentant kink for the lovely, talented, and all-around awesome [superstringtheory/viedangerouse](http://superstringtheory.tumblr.com). It took us a while, but here's your threesome, friend!

People don’t expect Natasha to be a caretaking type. They often find her cold: too pretty, too polished, too in control of herself and the situations around her.

They’re wrong, though. It feels unspeakably good to care for someone else. She likes it – whether it’s training Wanda or ushering Steve into the twenty-first century – and she thinks that maybe, in her own way, she’s good at it. 

Natasha knows herself well enough, though, to know that the pleasure of offering kindness to another person isn’t the only reason she’s bringing Bucky breakfast. 

“Hey,” she says, clearing her throat a little as she steps into the kitchen. 

Bucky looks up from where he’s sitting at the table, his wide eyes tracking her movement. “Hey.” 

He looks good. Substantial. When he’d first come up out of cryo, when they’d first brought him back to New York, he’d been too skinny, haunted and sickly-looking. When T’Challa had called to explain that the cryo chamber wasn’t working, Steve had practically tripped over himself getting to Wakanda, and he’d looked so goddamned guilty when he’d brought Bucky back, gaunt and pale. Like it was his fault, or T’Challa’s, or anyone’s, that the chamber hadn’t worked properly. 

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It had just been a malfunction. Steve, though – Steve had looked like he thought he had something to atone for. That was probably why he’d spent the last two months shoving food at Bucky at every opportunity. 

Natasha’s reasons for doing the same thing are a little more complicated. 

“Want donuts?” she asks, waving the box in his direction. 

Bucky grins, and Natasha watches the way his chin doubles with the movement. “Sure, but Steve just left a couple minutes ago to go get bagels. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him on the stairs.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows and makes a show of checking her watch. “It’s already 8:00. Steve’s falling down on the job this morning.”

She plunks the box down on the table and sits down next to Bucky. “Here, have some of these before he gets back and makes you eat something healthier.”

Bucky obediently opens the bakery box and peers inside at the assortment of donuts, pulling out a long john covered in sticky white frosting. “Are bagels and lox any healthier than this?” he asks with his mouth full.

Natasha shrugs, scraping some icing free from one of the cake donuts and licking her finger. “Lox has protein. That’s probably better than donuts.” 

When Steve gets back, bagels in hand, Bucky eats those, too, and Natasha watches Steve across the kitchen table. *

Bucky keeps waiting for something to happen. For some new disaster to strike, or for someone to point out to him that he doesn’t actually _do_ anything these days. 

No one does, though. Everyone seems perfectly content to let him lounge around Steve’s apartment like the Queen of Sheba. 

Natasha comes over a lot. Not quite every day, but nearly so, and she always, _always_ brings food. 

Today it’s lunch, neatly stacked Styrofoam containers of brisket and pulled pork, hash brown casserole and macaroni and cheese, something called collard greens – which Bucky thinks would be disgusting if not for the fact that they’re swimming in bacon grease – cornbread, and sweet potato pie. 

She shoves most of it at him and plops down next to him on the couch, grabbing the remote and flipping through stations until she lands on a Discovery Channel special about elephants. 

“They mourn their dead,” she informs him, stealing a morsel of brisket from the container in his lap. 

Bucky swallows and looks at the screen. “Elephant pregnancies last 22 months,” he says, and Natasha gives him a funny look. 

“I’ve seen this one before,” he explains, shoving a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. 

“Well, you have to watch it again. I like elephants,” she says. 

Bucky nods. Natasha’s funny like that. She can be remote, but she’s also weirdly, endearingly quirky sometimes. 

She moves a little closer to him, and he resists the urge to pull away. He likes having her close to him. Why wouldn’t he? She’s pretty, and her hair smells like vanilla, and when she presses her body against his, just a little, side-to-side, like they’re _friends_ , it feels almost as good as when Bucky’s sitting with Steve. She’s the perfect mix of small—her narrow, delicate little ribcage—and not-small—the side swell of her full breasts, the press of her hips, her thighs. 

Bucky slides his container of brisket toward her, feeling like he ought to share. “You want some?”

She shakes her head, eyes glued to the screen where a baby elephant is shooting water out of its trunk. “Nah. It’s for you.”

Bucky looks down at his midsection, where his stomach is starting to roll over the snug waistband of his jeans, and shrugs. “Thanks.”

By the time Steve walks in, Bucky’s scraping up the remains of the sweet potato pie, and his stomach hurts a little. He really didn’t need to eat everything Natasha had brought over. There had been enough there for a few people, probably. Definitely. 

The thing is, it’s become sort of a thing. The food. It’s excessive – Bucky isn’t stupid, and he knows eating until he can’t take a full breath isn’t necessary – but it’s soothing. Like right now, sitting here with Natasha, sleepy and full. It’s comforting, peaceful, and Natasha seems to like it, too. She’s leaning against him a little, polishing her nails a deep shade of gray and watching animal documentaries, like she’s not a world-class spy who probably has better things to do. 

Steve’s gaze moves from Bucky to Natasha and back again, and Bucky can’t quite read his expression. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, shoving the last bite of pie into his mouth. 

“Hey,” Steve echoes. “I picked up that ice cream you like – the butter pecan. You want some?” He lifts the paper sack in his hand a few inches. 

Before Bucky can answer, Natasha elbows Bucky in the ribs, making him groan. “Sure he does,” she says, blowing on her nails. 

Steve smiles, that soft little smile that always makes Bucky want to do whatever Steve wants. That smile has worked on Bucky since Brooklyn, since before the war, before the serum, before everything. Fucking Steve. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a spoon and hands Bucky the entire carton, like that’s normal. 

Like any of this is normal.

Bucky rests the ice cream between his knees and tugs at the waistband of his jeans, trying to pull them down so that his belly has more room. It doesn’t help much; he still feels overfed and uncomfortable. 

He also feels like eating the ice cream. 

*

Steve wonders, sometimes, if what he’s feeling is jealousy.

It’s not really in his nature to see love as a finite resource, and he doesn’t feel threatened by Bucky and Natasha’s friendship, or affection for one another, or whatever it is that’s going on between them. Still, he definitely feels _something _when Natasha comes over for dinner and casually leans over to feed Bucky the last of the General Tso’s chicken from her own chopsticks.__

He feels the same sharp, yearning whatever-it-is when Natasha curls up next to Bucky on the sofa, her head pillowed on his softening belly, and Bucky gently smooths her hair with his hand. Natasha looks less deadly than usual, practically swimming in one of Steve’s SHIELD sweatshirts and cutoffs, her hair pulled up in a completely uncharacteristic and oddly charming ponytail. Bucky’s hair is pulled back, too, but he’s in a t-shirt and sweatpants, and he’s definitely not swimming in his clothes. 

They look strangely right together, the two of them; and it bothers Steve at the same time that it makes him feel happy. 

Bucky is _his_ in a way that he could never be anyone else’s. And Natasha…well, she’s far too self-possessed for him to think of as “his,” but there is something special between them. She’s one of only a handful of women who’ve ever kissed him - and sure, okay, it had been a tactical maneuver, not a _kiss_ -kiss, but still. She had taken his face in her small, cool hands and kissed him like it was the end of the world, and he’d never quite been able to shake it. 

Has she kissed Bucky like that? 

Would he mind if she did? 

He tries to imagine it; Natasha, all taut curves under her leather and denim; Bucky, heavy and dark, holding her slim waist in his hands. Or no, maybe his hands would be somewhere else. There are a lot of interesting-looking places on Natasha’s body. And on Bucky’s, now that he’s thinking about it. Both of them have soft curves where he has hard planes of muscle and bone. In fact - 

“What’re you thinking about?” Natasha asks, stretching out one shapely leg and nudging his knee with her toe. “You look like you’re about a million miles away.” 

“Nothing,” Steve says, giving her foot a playful shove. “Just trying to figure out if you’re moving in here or what.” 

She gives him a slightly firmer poke. “Rude,” she says. “I thought you old-timers were supposed to be gentlemen.” 

“You can take it,” he says, laughing, as she digs her toe into the ticklish spot between his ribs and his hipbones. “Ow, hey, come on, cut it out!” 

“Ow? _Ow?_ ” She redoubles her attack and he squirms, trying to catch her foot in his hands. 

“Oof,” Bucky says, as she pushes against his belly a little. 

“Oh, sorry,” Natasha says. “And you’re so full, too. Poor baby.” She leans down and kisses Bucky’s tummy, just a quick little peck, then rubs her hand there, soothingly. 

Steve catches his breath and his stomach flips over. 

“Anyway,” Natasha says, glancing over her shoulder at Steve. “You need me here to help take care of Bucky.” 

“Hey,” Bucky says. “I can take care of myself, ya know.” 

“Of course you can,” Natasha says, her hand still moving over the little swell of his stomach. “But now you don’t have to.” 

*

Bucky’s been back for about two months when he outgrows all of his clothes.

Not that he’d had many; Steve had loaned him some sweats, and Natasha had brought him a bag of jeans and t-shirts from the mall when he’d first gotten back. The jeans had been a little big, then had fit perfectly, then a little less perfectly, then they’d decided to stop buttoning altogether. 

That had been a few weeks ago, so he’d resorted to the sweats, but even those are getting tight, the drawstring loosened as far as it will go, the waistband shoved down around his hips. He stands in front of the mirror and looks at himself, frowning. 

From the front, he doesn’t look all that different; he’s still broad across the shoulders and chest, his waist – okay – a little thicker than usual, maybe looking a little puffy where the sweatpants are digging into his sides. But when he turns sideways, he can see exactly where all the extra food he’s been eating lately has been going. He’s got a belly now, an absolutely undeniable belly. It’s not huge; he could, probably, cut back on food and beer and join Steve and Natasha at the training facility a few days a week and shed it in no time. 

The thought of doing that gives him an odd little pang, though. He touches the little outward curve, cups the lower part of it and presses, feeling how soft it is. It doesn’t actually look bad, he just needs bigger clothes, is all. And besides, he thinks, as he shrugs into the biggest of the t-shirts and tugs it down over the incipient roundness at his middle, it makes him happy. 

Hydra had modified his body against his will, for reasons that were indisputably evil. Now, he’s with friends, and his body is changing again, but for different, happier, and entirely consensual reasons. 

He’s fine with that. 

*

The next morning, Steve runs longer than usual, trying to exercise himself into some sort of clarity. His thoughts, his _feelings_ , have been in a snarl lately. 

It doesn’t work, the running. He can’t seem to order his thoughts. They’re all focused on Bucky, on Natasha, on the fact that when he’d left two hours ago, Natasha had been casually bossing Bucky around the kitchen, instructing him about how to make pancakes. They’d looked so easily domestic that it had made Steve feel both incredibly good and a little bit like a third wheel in his own home. 

When he gets back, Bucky and Natasha are side-by-side on the sofa, peering at the computer. 

“We’re ordering Bucky jeans because he won’t let me take him shopping,” Natasha tells Steve, tapping away at Steve’s laptop like it’s hers. 

“I don’t wanna go anywhere,” Bucky says, and Steve can believe it. Bucky’s leaned back against the sofa, the little ball of his belly and the chub at his sides clearly outlined by his t-shirt, and he looks lazy and full. There are empty dishes, sticky with maple syrup, on the coffee table, and a full glass of chocolate milk is still sitting there, waiting for Bucky to drink it. 

“But he can’t button his jeans and the Winter Soldier can’t be wandering around in sweatpants all the time,” Natasha says, “so we compromised.” 

“I can button them, probably,” Bucky protests, but Steve thinks he’s lying.

Natasha arches an eyebrow. “Could you? Because I don’t think you could.” She reaches over and pats his tummy lightly, and Steve can see the jiggle of it, even through Bucky’s t-shirt. He’s getting _chubby_. 

Bucky looks down at himself and shrugs. “Maybe not now. I’m full of pancakes.”

“You’re always full.” Natasha taps at the keyboard a few times and then angles it toward Bucky. “Here, these. Good?”

Steve watches them, tells himself his heart rate is still elevated from the run. He can’t wrap his head around the easy way Natasha has with Bucky, joking about him as the Winter Soldier, like it’s not some nightmare, never to be spoken of. The way she can laugh in the face of Hydra and then toss her hair back like it’s nothing. The way she can tease Bucky for the chub he’s acquired around his thick waist, laughing and gentle. 

Steve would never mention any of that to Bucky. But it doesn’t seem to have bothered him; Bucky’s just peering over Natasha’s shoulder at whatever jeans she’s picked out and nodding complacently. “Yeah, those are fine. Get maybe three pairs of them.”

Natasha eyes Bucky up and down, her eyes lingering at his waist. Huh. Steve understands that impulse. 

“You’re probably up two sizes,” Natasha says. “36s, now, you think?” She looks at Bucky, who shrugs, and then up at Steve. “What do you think?”

What does Steve think? Steve has no fucking idea what he thinks. 

“Sure,” he croaks, and escapes to the shower. 

*

It takes another week or so for Steve to decide that he’s not jealous of Natasha, not jealous of the way that she touches Bucky so casually, or even the way that Bucky touches her. 

What he’s jealous of is that Natasha is _allowed_ to touch Bucky, a peck on the cheek or a teasing little squeeze of his belly fat. He’s jealous of that easy physical contact, the way that, just by virtue of being a woman, she’s allowed to exchange casual touches with him in a way that Steve can’t. 

Sometimes, when they’re cooking dinner together, the three of them all standing in Steve’s cramped little kitchen, Natasha glides between them, easy and smooth like a dancer. Her hand trails across Bucky’s shoulder, or her hip nudges against Steve as she brushes past him. It sends a thrill up Steve’s spine, the feeling of her against him, soft and small. In those moments she feels like the connective tissue between Bucky and him, the center of a constellation, the point at which they are both tied. 

That night, after Bucky’s eaten four plates of lasagna, he pushes his chair back from the table and groans. “The last plate was too much, Natasha,” he says, and she grins, reaching over to take his plate. 

Bucky doesn’t let her, though. He reaches out instead and tugs her down until she’s sitting in his lap. “Don’t clean up yet,” he says, looking up at her through his eyelashes the way Steve had seen him do a million times before, a million years ago. “I’m too full to get up and help, and from what I understand, it’s a new century and I’m not supposed to assume you’ll clean up my messes just because you’re the fairer sex.” He’s grinning, cocky and sure of himself, like the boy he’d been. It makes Steve’s pulse race, just watching them. 

It hurts, too, the way it hurt before the war. The way this is so _natural_ for Bucky, just like it always was. Flirting, making a woman laugh. Bucky makes it look easy, even now. 

There were so many times that Steve stood at the edge of a room and watched Bucky charm his way into some dame’s skirts, looking impossibly young and handsome and charming. Steve hadn’t bothered to quell his jealousy then, his bitter secret animosity toward that endless parade of girls panting after his best friend. Now, when it’s not some dame but Natasha, he’s not jealous – but he’s something. 

Bucky’s hand is resting high up on her inner thigh, almost indecent, and Steve can’t quite tear his eyes away from it, the way Bucky’s thumb is sliding against the denim of her tight, tight jeans. When he finally looks up, though, Bucky’s eyes aren’t on Natasha. They’re looking right at Steve. 

*

Natasha’s face always lies, but her body always tells the truth.

Bucky thinks most people probably don’t notice this. The fact that he does might have something to do with Hydra’s manipulations, but he prefers to think that it’s the kind of thing he’d always have understood. No enemy could ever read the next move from Natasha’s expression; she’s so skilled at applying those layers upon layers of deceit. And even now, sitting on his lap, his hand resting with impudent familiarity on the inside of her thigh, her face betrays no discomposure. 

But he’d felt the lithe muscles of her leg twitch underneath his hand, and her arm wraps around his shoulders, pulling them ever-so-slightly closer together. He curves his hand around her sweetly rounded ass, and she doesn’t move away, like maybe she doesn’t mind being manhandled a little. Like maybe she even enjoys it. 

Bucky likes it, too, likes the feel of her soft-strong-warm girl’s body pressed up against him, the fresh scent of her hair and skin, the way she wriggles a little in his lap. But it’s not until he meets Steve’s eyes that the air seems to vanish and his pulse starts to hammer senselessly at the back of his skull. Steve is staring at the two of them like a shipwrecked sailor sighting land, and Bucky feels breathless with more than the slight pressure of Natasha’s hip against his too-full belly. 

His belly. Which seems to be generating its own special gravitational field the bigger it gets. Natasha is always touching it, resting her head there, rubbing it gently while he eats Doritos and Pop-Tarts on the couch in front of the television. Poking and pinching at it and offering up criticism that doesn’t really feel like criticism. 

Steve doesn’t say anything about it, never touches Bucky except by accident, but Bucky’s seen the way Steve’s eyes dip down to his belly, particularly when he’s full, lying on the sofa in a food coma, the hem of his t-shirt riding up, or when he leans back in his chair after a big meal and pops the top button of his jeans with a sigh of contentment. 

Or now, with Natasha curling herself around his tummy like a ferret, her small, light body pressed up flush against his heavy, soft middle. Steve’s pupils are so wide his eyes look black. 

Then Natasha says, “Hmm, _very_ modern and enlightened,” glancing pointedly in the direction of his hand. “Let’s make Steve do the dishes,” she adds, and the moment vanishes like fog in the sun. 

*

Natasha isn’t used to feeling out of control, and she doesn’t like it.

When Steve had first brought Bucky home, she’d let herself believe that she was just hanging around to help Steve. He’s so obviously in love with Bucky, it would be funny if the whole situation weren’t so tragic. Steve’s love for Bucky is almost too big for him to grasp, though; it’s like the story of the elephant and the three blind men. Steve can see his burning need to protect Bucky at all costs, his desire to be with him whenever possible, and his own longing for someone who can relate to his rather unique circumstances, but he can’t see the whole, what that all adds up to. 

She’d forgotten that caretaking can be a double-edged sword; that the more time you spend with someone who needs you, the more you start to need them, too. Now she’s caught up in this messy web of love and need and want, between Steve’s palpable longing and Bucky’s provoking charm, and she’s a little astonished by how much she likes it. Isn’t sure she _likes_ liking it. 

She tells herself she can leave anytime she wants, but if she’s being honest, that’s the last thing she wants to do. Which only makes it worse. 

She gazes across the table at Bucky, who is working his way through a phenomenal quantity of Chicken Tikka Masala from the local Indian place, then over at Steve, who is holding his fork midway between his plate and his mouth, staring at Bucky and visibly blushing. It gives her a little pang of pleasure, and she doesn’t completely understand why. 

_Sloppy, Romanov,_ she tells herself. _Very sloppy._

Bucky sets down his fork and presses his hand to the side of his belly, shifting in his seat. “Ugh,” he says. “It’s so good, but it’s really heavy.” 

“You’re not done,” Natasha says, pointing at his plate. “No ice cream until you finish that. And the naan,” she adds, shoving the warm foil packet of flatbread at him. “All of it.” It comes out a little bossier than she means it to, but she doesn’t apologize, and Bucky doesn’t seem bothered. In fact, he gives her a knowing look, one eyebrow lifted, as he forks up another huge bite and chews it at her. 

“How’re the new jeans, Buck?” Steve asks, all innocent solicitude, and Natasha has to feign a cough to hide a sudden swell of hilarity. He is _so_ obvious. It’s part of what makes him so adorable, but still. 

“They were a little better before dinner,” Bucky admits, leaning back and sliding his thumb under the waistband of the crisp new denim, readjusting to accommodate his fullness. “But they’re good.” 

“Good,” Steve says lamely, somehow blushing even harder. 

Natasha feels like bullying him a little, too, so she gets up and stands behind Bucky, resting her hands on his shoulders, then slides them down his torso, over the round ball of his belly, and into the waistband of his jeans – just an inch or so, but she makes sure Steve can see. “Yup, you’ve got a little room there,” she says, gliding her hands back up again, lingering for just a second in the vicinity of his navel, pressing gently into the softness. “Come here and feel,” she says to Steve, still leaning down over Bucky’s shoulders, her breasts brushing the back of his head. 

But Steve just says, “I’ll take your word for it,” and stands abruptly, almost knocking over his chair. 


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky likes the way Natasha looks when she sleeps, her pretty face more relaxed than it ever is when she’s awake. She’d fallen asleep with her head in Bucky’s lap, pressed up against his overfull tummy, while they were watching a movie, and Bucky doesn’t mind at all. She had brought over _Lilo and Stitch_ , swearing that it was an underrated Disney classic. “Plus it’s about an alien robot created to destroy things who ends up all cuddly and shit,” she’d added, grinning at Bucky. “You’ll love it.”

And Bucky had. 

He’d also loved how Natasha had cuddled up next to him, running her manicured nails up and down the swollen curve of his belly, scratching him through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. “You hungry?” she’d asked, like it wasn’t a ridiculous question to ask someone who’d just inhaled an entire pizza by himself, plus breadsticks, not more than an hour ago. 

He had shifted, looking down at the way his belly was pushing out, firm and bloated at the top, drifting into soft pudge that settled over the stretched-out waistband of his sweats at the bottom. His belly button was clearly visible through his white tee. “I could eat.”

“Good,” she’d said sweetly, patting him on the tummy. She’d disappeared into the kitchen and come back with a pint of chocolate ice cream and a package of Oreos.

Bucky doesn’t quite know what to make of it, the way food has become a conduit for a burning kind of ache that goes beyond sexual tension into some sort of taboo no man’s land that he can’t quite articulate, even to himself. The way Natasha teases him in one breath—“greedy, greedy,” she’d said when he shoved the last slice of pizza into his mouth earlier—and praises him the next. The way she touches his belly, casual and proprietary, while her pulse pounds in her throat. 

And _fuck_ , the way Steve watches the whole thing, blue eyes bright with interest and shame and arousal.

Bucky had eaten all of the ice cream, which had been easy, and polished off half of the Oreos, which had not. He’d shoved them in his mouth until he could barely catch his breath, just because he didn’t want Natasha to stop reaching over and poking his gut, occasionally pinching a handful of chub between her fingers, sometimes just rubbing little circles into his fat. 

“You’re so cute,” she’d said once, when he’d hiccupped into his fist and his stomach had jerked painfully. 

When the movie’s over, he covers her with a blanket and runs his fingers through her hair. He knows she woke up the minute he shifted out from underneath her, but he lets her pretend she’s still asleep. Lets her pretend she’s not a honed weapon; just a girl who watched a movie with a boy. He understands why she would want that. Need it. 

He pads into Steve’s room, the contents of his overstuffed belly shifting painfully with every step, and walks right up to Steve’s bed.

“Hey champ,” he says without preamble. Like Natasha, Steve’s trained to be a light sleeper. Bucky knows he woke up the minute the door opened. 

“Uh—hey, are you okay?” Steve’s voice is raspy with sleep, tinged with well-meaning concern.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Shove over.”

Steve, bless him, doesn’t act like the request is strange at all. He just lifts up the edge of his quilt a little, like an invitation, and Bucky slides in next to him. 

“Is Nat still here?”

“She’s asleep on the couch.” Bucky shoves himself over until his thigh is touching Steve, just a little. 

Steve’s silent for a second. “How was the movie?”

Bucky pushes himself a little closer. If he had a left arm, it would surely be touching Steve’s right now. 

He’s glad he doesn’t, glad it’s not the metal one pressed up against Steve’s warm bicep. 

“It was good.” Bucky glances over at Steve, his handsome face clearly visible in the street light filtered through the blinds. “You should have stayed up. There was ice cream.”

Steve turns toward him a little. “Is there still ice cream?”

Bucky laughs. Steve, for all of his painful shyness, is a sassy little shit, too. Always was. Biggest mouth in Brooklyn. 

“Nope,” he says, shoving the blankets down to his waist and petting his belly lightly. He can practically feel Steve blushing. 

*

Steve inhales, trying to steady his breathing. He wonders if Bucky can hear his heart pounding.

“There were Oreos, too,” Bucky continues, and Steve can see his hand still splayed across the chubby curve of his belly in the darkness. “Some of those are left, though.”

“I’m surprised.” 

“I got full.”

“You’re gonna get fat,” Steve says, suddenly bold in the shadowed intimacy of a dark room, and he shifts a little farther, until he’s nearly on his side. He’s facing Bucky, and they’re so close together, so very close. 

“It’s Natasha’s fault,” Bucky replies, sounding completely unconcerned at the prospect. 

Steve pauses, feeling the weird dizziness of flying back seventy-five years at once, the way he sometimes does when he’s with Bucky. 

Before the war, Bucky had sometimes come home from a night out and crept into bed with Steve. Like so many other things, they’d never talked about it. They’d both just accepted it: that sometimes after Bucky was out with a girl, he’d feel some weird need—driven by guilt and thwarted desire, an unspeakable kind of absence—to be close to Steve. And Steve had needed it, too. The smell of a girl’s perfume on Bucky’s collar, all tangled up with cigarette smoke and whiskey and his cheap aftershave. 

He wonders if that’s what this is, now. 

So he asks. “You remember when you used to come get in bed with me after a date sometimes, Buck?”

“Yeah.”

Steve can’t read much from Bucky’s voice; not how he feels about that particular memory, or even if it’s very clear to him. Bucky doesn’t recall everything that happened before the war, Steve knows. There are gaps, horrible blank spots that make Steve’s heart ache and make Bucky grind his teeth in frustration. 

“Is that what this is now?” Steve swallows. “Is Natasha your girl?”

Bucky snorts. “If she was my girl I wouldn’t leave her on the goddamned couch, Rogers, for Christ’s sake. What kind of guy you think I am?”

There’s a beat of silence, and Bucky clears his throat. “Maybe this is like that a little. I always wanted to take you with me on those dates, back then.”

Steve frowns. He’d hated the idea that Bucky had pitied him, taken him along with him, tried to find him a gal. He’d never felt comfortable, never felt right. He hates that idea now, too. “I didn’t want to be a third wheel,” he says, which isn’t everything he wants to say but is the only part he knows how to express.

“I didn’t want that either.”

As Steve falls asleep, he thinks that maybe it should feel like a victory that Bucky is sleeping next to him instead of Natasha, but it doesn’t. 

*

The remark Steve had made, _you’re gonna get fat,_ starts to seem more and more like a prophecy as the weeks go by.

Steve and Natasha go on bringing home ridiculous quantities of food, and Bucky goes on eating all of it. “You should text me if you’re going to pick up dinner,” Steve says halfheartedly, when he and Natasha both stop at Five Guys and bring home huge, greasy bags of burgers and fries. 

“Why?” Natasha asks, handing her entire bag to Bucky and plucking out a single fry. “Bucky’ll eat it all.” 

And of course, he does; no matter what they bring home or how much, Bucky almost always manages to eat it all. It’s not long before his new clothes start feeling uncomfortably tight. He can shove the jeans down around his hips for now, but his t-shirts are obviously straining to contain his increasingly soft body. His belly shoves up against the cotton fabric and pulls it tight, and all his shirts start riding slowly upwards as his shoulders and chest spread wider. The sleeves are even getting tight on his arm, where his bicep has gotten thicker. 

At first, it’s not so bad; he’s fully covered in the morning, and there’s only an inch or so of belly visible between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans by lunch – it’s not really a problem until after dinner, most nights, when he has to unbutton his jeans in order to finish off whatever food Steve and Natasha have brought for him. Then, as the weeks pass, he has to unbutton for a few hours after lunch. And finally, he can’t get anything to fit him at all. 

Natasha shows up with a brightly-colored paper shopping bag, which she hangs on the doorknob of the room he’s now sharing almost every night with Steve. Three pairs of jeans, five t-shirts, and a couple pairs of sweats, all in larger sizes. He wonders how long these will fit, at the rate he’s going. Wonders how much weight you actually have to gain to go up three sizes in clothes, these days. 

A lot, is what he thinks. His belly has already surpassed the point where it hovers over the waistband of his jeans; his love handles and gut now crush it, and when he sits down on the sofa each night, it’s poised on the brink of his lap, heavy and soft, a real presence. Natasha still can’t keep her hands off it, which he should probably find stranger than he does. It almost seems normal now for him to spend the better part of his day eating until he can’t get off the couch, and to slowly lapse into a food coma with Natasha’s cool hand working slow circles into his skin. 

It also seems normal for him to get up after a while and crawl into bed with Steve, and for Steve to scoot close, so close, but not quite close enough, his eyes hot on Bucky’s expanding body, his skin flushed with want. Bucky can see it, knows what it means, but doesn’t know why Steve won’t close that little space between them on the mattress, that little no-man’s land that always survives the night. 

*

Steve wakes up to the smell of coffee and something baking.

He rolls over and sits on the edge of the bed, wondering if maybe he should’ve gone ahead and rolled the other way, like he wants to, at least partly. But then Bucky makes a snuzzy little noise, squirming deeper into the comforter, and shoves his face into one of the pillows with a groan of protest, so Steve leaves quietly, pulling the door closed behind him. Natasha is up, of course, and sipping coffee at the kitchen table. 

“What’s cooking?” he asks, pouring coffee for himself. “Smells good.” 

“Cinnamon rolls, from that place over on Avenue U.” 

“Those are the best,” he says. “So big.” 

“Yes they are,” she says, flipping idly through the Sports section of the newspaper. “They’re soft, too. Big and soft.” She glances up then, one eyebrow quirked, and smiles at him. “Which is how you like’em, isn’t it?” 

“Huh?” Steve is so startled he almost inhales a mouthful of coffee. 

“Nothing,” Natasha says, turning her attention back to the paper. She slides him the front page, which he ignores in favor of a grocery store circular, staring at page after shiny page of easily affordable food. 

The oven pings just as Bucky pads into the kitchen, hair nearly tousled out of its knot, t-shirt wrinkled across the top of his belly, hanging into empty space at the bottom. He looks flagrantly, glaringly big, and also incredibly soft all over. Steve drags his gaze away, fidgeting idly with the newspaper, but Natasha turns to beam at Bucky. “You’re just in time for breakfast,” she says, rising to pull the tray of rolls out of the oven. 

“You don’t have to make breakfast all the time, you know,” Bucky says. He slumps into his chair and scratches his gut idly, which makes Steve’s throat go dry. _Big and soft,_ he thinks. _Which is how you like’em._

“I know,” she says. “That’s probably why I don’t mind doing it.” 

“You could sleep in sometimes,” Steve says. “You’re always up so early.” 

“Easy for you to say. You get to sleep with Bucky. I always end up on the couch with a bunch of Oreo crumbs.” 

There’s a little beat of silence, and Bucky meets Steve’s eyes across the table. “You could come to bed, too,” Steve says. “There’s a little room.” 

Natasha smiles at that, then glances pointedly at Bucky’s belly, which is just kissing the edge of the table, even though he’s leaned back in his chair. “Not for long,” she says, reaching out to stroke the appealing curve of it just as he takes a huge bite of cinnamon roll. 

*

That night, they order Afghan food from Anytime and sit around the kitchen table while Bucky runs through the Disney movie page on Wikipedia, absently popping fried appetizers into his mouth from time to time.

“How about _The Jungle Book?_ ” he asks, with his mouth full. 

“It’s good,” Natasha says. “But it’s also racist.” 

“ _Dumbo?_ ” 

“Racist. And also sad.” 

“ _Lady and the Tramp?_ ” 

She thinks for a few seconds. “Nope. Racist.” 

“Oh come on, I’ve seen that one, it’s about dogs,” Steve says. “How can that be racist?” 

“The Siamese cats,” she says. “Insanely racist. I liked the slutty Shih-Tzu at the pound, though.” 

Steve has nothing to say to that, but Bucky goes there. “There was a slutty Shih-Tzu at the pound?” 

“Oh, yeah. Voiced by Peggy Lee. Was she before or after you guys?” 

“I remember her,” Bucky says. “She had a couple of hits, right before the war. _Someone Else is Taking My Place_ and…” he shakes his head. “What’s the other one?” 

“ _Why Don’t You Do Right,_ ” Steve says, grinning. 

“I want to watch _Lady and the Tramp,_ ” Bucky says. “We can skip the racist parts.” 

*

By the time they make it to the living room to watch the movie, Steve and Natasha are long finished with their meals, but Bucky flops onto the couch with takeout containers of dumplings and lamb meatballs tucked under his arm. His cheeks are tinged pink, like the endless repetition of fork-to-mouth is physically taxing, and his hair is falling out of the messy bun at the nape of his neck.

“Here, let me fix this,” Natasha says, standing behind the sofa and finger combing Bucky’s hair back into a fresh knot. He can do it himself, one-handed, but it’s awkward; if he would allow it, Natasha would always do it for him. Under the guise of collecting the last few errant strands, she drags her fingertips against the soft, chubby line of his jaw, where his chin is starting to double. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and the contrast of rough stubble and chubby cheeks feels unspeakably good. Bucky must like it, too, because he leans into the touch. 

Steve sits down with them, surprising Natasha when he chooses the couch instead of the love seat. The air feels charged, somehow—even more than usual—with them all three together, so close. 

Normally in the evenings, when Bucky’s eating himself into a stupor, Natasha leans up against him and rubs his tummy, showering him in teasing words about how chubby he’s getting, words that are at odds with the way she carefully touches his gut, the way she hops off the sofa to get him more—more ice cream, more Coke, more everything. Tonight, though, she stretches herself out across the length of the sofa, her head in Steve’s lap and her bare feet pushing against Bucky’s belly, fighting for space. 

Steve looks down at her, clearly surprised, and bites his bottom lip unconsciously, his big hands fluttering for a moment before one settles on her shoulder, the other tangles in her hair. 

_Good job, Stevie._

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She knows that if she pushes them much farther down this path, _something_ has to happen, and she’s not sure what. Or if it’s a good idea. Or if it’s crazy. 

Before she can think about it anymore, Bucky shoves at her feet. “People are trying to eat here,” he says, mouth full of rice. “Rude.”

“You’re always trying to eat, Barnes,” she chirps back at him, pointing her toes and pushing them against a strip of chunky exposed skin on Bucky’s side, where his t-shirt had caught and pulled up a bit, over a surprisingly thick roll of fat that’s settled on either side of his waist, pushing over the top of his jeans. 

Bucky grunts as she kicks at him and shoves another forkful of food in his mouth before he speaks. “You’re always bringing home food.”

“Yeah, but look at Steve,” she says, feeling reckless, like she’s walking a tight rope without a net. She sits up just a little and tugs up Steve’s shirt—which is ridiculously too small for him in a way that is completely different from the way that Bucky’s clothes are too small—exposing his perfectly ripped ab muscles. She drags her nails across them, glancing up to see Steve’s blush and bite his lip again. His hand on her shoulder clenches a little. “ _He_ doesn’t eat everything I bring home,” she continues, moving her toes around from Bucky’s love handle to the side of his swollen tummy. 

“Thas’ because he brings home almost as much as ‘oo,” Bucky says, slurring his words around an entire dumpling. 

“Good thing we have you around, then,” Natasha says lightly, easing back the tension in the room to a reasonable level. 

_Lady and the Tramp_ , according to Bucky, is nowhere near the masterpiece that was _Lilo and Stitch_ , but Steve is mesmerized. “You want to feed someone spaghetti like that?” Natasha asks when Lady and the Tramp go to dinner, just to watch him blush. 

By the time the movie’s over, Bucky’s demolished a plate of peanut butter cookies and three glasses of chocolate milk on top of his dinner, and his newish jeans are unbuttoned, his belly spilling out between the flaps. Steve’s eyes keep drifting over, Natasha notices, like Bucky’s belly is a magnet. She understands that response. 

“I – ah.” Steve coughs into his hand and makes a production of stretching and shoving Natasha into a sitting position. “I’m going to bed. You – uh, you guys can come whenever,” he says, only stammering a little. 

Natasha looks over at him, the hectic red of his cheeks, and doesn’t tease him at all. Her smile is absolutely gentle. The delivery had been a little strained, but she knew what that invitation had cost Steve, in terms of sheer bravado. Never let it be said that Captain America was a coward. 

“’Kay,” she says softly, leaning over and dropping a chaste kiss on his cheek. 

“You gotta give me a minute,” Bucky mumbles from his end of the couch, both hands cupping his stomach. 

“Nat can roll you in,” Steve sasses as he walks out of the room. 

“Do I need to?” Natasha asks, sitting up and giving Bucky’s stomach a few firm pats, which make him wince and stifle a burp. 

“Jesus, woman, be gentle. And no – just gimme a minute.”

*

Steve is still wide awake thirty minutes later, when he hears two sets of footsteps in the hall, and he holds his breath. Closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep, feeling ridiculous. 

He can’t help but peek through his lashes, though, as Natasha and Bucky walk into the room. Bucky pushes his jeans down like he always does, a lazy careless shove because they’re already unfastened, and leaves them puddled on the floor by the bed along with his t-shirt.

He slides his eyes over to Natasha, feeling like a voyeur but also like he can’t not look, not if God himself commanded it. She doesn’t make any move to slip out of her cotton shorts or her tank top, though – just wiggles a hand behind her back and then slips her bra out the side of her top, like Houdini, and drops it on top of Bucky’s pile of dirty clothes. 

“We know you’re awake, Rogers,” Bucky says, his voice infuriatingly calm, damn him. 

“How could I not be, with you two stomping around?” His voice doesn’t shake at all, and Steve mentally chalks up a point for himself. 

“Uh huh. So what’s the protocol here? Are ladies supposed to sleep in the middle?” Bucky sounds amused, and Steve can’t see his face in the shadows, but he can imagine the way his mouth is twisted into a little grin. There’s a ghost of nervousness behind the question, though, and it loosens the tension in Steve’s chest. 

And then, suddenly, Natasha’s there beside him, her warm soft body up against his, and Steve can’t decide what to focus on – the feeling of her against him, in his bed, or the spectacle of watching Bucky ease himself into bed, cradling his swollen belly like it actually hurts to move. 

There’s a beat or two of silence, when it feels like all three of them are frozen, held into place by invisible piano wire, taut and crackling with tension. 

Then Natasha opens her mouth and proves that she’s braver than either of them: “Oh my god, if I’m going to sleep between you two, take that quilt off or I’ll smother to death. It’s like two furnaces.” 

Bucky and Steve both immediately start shoving blankets out of the way, and Natasha snorts, muttering something about chivalry and flopping onto her belly.

It’s a little surprising, how quickly Steve falls asleep. 

*

Natasha lies awake, thinking about sex.

It’s not such a strange thing to be thinking about, given her current circumstances, but it is something she hasn’t thought about much, not for ages – at least not as something to do recreationally, for purposes of pleasure. 

She’s been trained to use sex to manipulate people. She’s _had_ sex, certainly, with a variety of people, but she’s never done this, has never gone to bed and just _slept_ with two people she likes, because she wants to. Because they want her there, and she wants to be there, and because somehow, in spite of everything, she fits into the space they’ve left for her. 

And it really is that simple, in some ways. Bucky loves Steve. Steve loves Bucky. She loves both of them, and they love her, and they’re all friends, and occasionally they save the world together. 

If it were just that, though, she probably wouldn’t be here, snuggled up against Bucky’s tummy, her ass nestled into the nook between Steve’s flat stomach and the tops of his thighs. But there’s the entire issue of food, and Bucky getting fat, and Steve secretly/obviously loving it. And, if she’s being honest – which she always is, with herself – the issue of her loving it, too. Partly because of the way it makes her feel simultaneously safe and in control, partly because it gets her infernally, panty-meltingly hot. 

Bucky’s always been beautiful, and she supposes that if she were normal, she’d probably have just fucked him years ago and gotten it out of her system. But he’s even more beautiful now. Irresistibly soft, his belly so fucking _round,_ and Jesus, she just wants to wrap herself around his big, soft body, to sink her fingers into the round flesh of his ass, to bite his full lips and press her mouth into his goddamn adorable double chin. Wants to sit on his lap and feed him cookies dipped in ice cream, or – better still – wants Steve to do that, while she watches and gets herself off. Wants to see Steve’s long legs wrapped around Bucky’s thick thighs, wants Steve’s rigidly flat abs shoved up against Bucky’s round, fat gut, wants to press their faces together and make them kiss. 

“Fuck,” she whispers into her pillow, squirming against the mattress, so turned on she can hardly stand it. _Fuck fuck fuck._

Then there’s Steve. He’s handsome, sure, but she’d never considered him sexually attractive until she’d seen the way Bucky looks at him, and the way he looks at Bucky, abject and desperate. He reminds her of a fire in a hay bale, smoldering down deep where nobody can see, but bound to erupt into flames eventually. The thought of breaking through his ironclad self-control is frantically erotic. 

She slides one hand down the front of her body, toward the throbbing ache between her legs, slowly and silently, trying not to make the bedsheets rustle. 

And then a hand lands lightly on her hip, and she freezes. 

“Y’okay?” Steve asks, voice slurry with sleep. “You’re all fidgety.” 

For a fleeting instant, Natasha thinks about covering his hand with hers, guiding it over to Bucky’s tummy, pressing her and Steve’s joined hands into that softness. She knows that Steve would like that, that it wouldn’t take much more than that to tip him over the edge of the precipice they’ve all been flirting with for weeks. 

Instead, though, she relaxes her body, lets her back rest against Steve’s chest. “Yeah,” she says. Her pulse races, and she feels hot, so hot, burning like a coal between the two of them. “I’m okay.” 

*

For Steve, waking up with Natasha nestled cozily between himself and Bucky feels right, almost familiar, like it’s something they’ve always done. At the same time, he’s frustratingly aware of the fact that everything that’s happened since he brought Bucky home from Wakanda has been transgressive, even bizarre, and it’s only getting weirder.

Weirder still: he likes it. More than he can easily admit, even to himself. He likes Natasha’s freaky playfulness, the way she teases Bucky even as she encourages him to finish off outrageous quantities of food, how sweet she can be one minute, how provoking the next. He likes – maybe more than likes – watching Bucky eat. He likes seeing Bucky get a little heavier day by day, his belly bigger and rounder, filling up his shirts and spilling over the tops of his jeans. 

Steve knows what they’re moving toward, as unbelievable as it seems, but somehow it feels like there’s a piece missing. Like everyone’s just waiting on one final element to fall into place, and the excruciating tension will finally break. He thinks it might be something to do with him. 

He thinks all three of them might be waiting for him to say the word. 

He looks across the kitchen table at Bucky, who is, tonight, working his way through an epic pile of Chinese food. He always takes his time with food, never hurries, and meals seem to bleed into one another over the course of the day, Bucky’s beautiful mouth almost always full, a loaded plate never out of reach. 

Natasha is next to him, and she gives Steve an exaggerated look, drawing his eyes down to the zipper of Bucky’s hoodie, which is stretched tight over his belly, the zipper obviously working hard to keep the two halves of the sweatshirt united. 

“I can’t even get my hand in your pockets anymore,” she says, trying (although not very hard) to slip a hand into one of the sweatshirt’s two front pockets. 

“So don’t touch the merchandise,” Bucky laughs, nudging her hand away with his elbow. “Can’t a man eat his dinner in peace?” 

“I did let you eat your dinner in peace. That was two whole plates ago. I don’t even know what to call this, anymore.” 

“I haven’t gotten up, so it’s still dinner.” 

“ _Can_ you still get up? How long has it been?” 

Bucky pokes her knee with his chopsticks and the dispute continues, but Steve’s barely listening. It’s nice, what they have here, he thinks, the three of them together. And he’s never felt closer to anyone than he has to these two – with the possible exception of Peggy Carter, but that had never been meant to be, and it was a long time ago. 

“Steve, back me up here,” Natasha says. “I say this is at least fifty pounds.” She grabs hold of either side of Bucky’s full tummy and lifts it a little, as if testing its weight. “He says thirty. Do you have a scale?” 

“No, I never needed one before,” he says, although yes, absolutely, he _is_ going to get one. 

“What’s your guess?” Natasha says. “Let’s make this interesting. I’ll bet you a bag of those black and white cookies you like it’s at least fifty.” 

“Done,” Bucky says. “I’ll eat the cookies if you’re right.” 

“And what if you’re right?” 

“I’ll still eat the cookies. But you don’t get to watch,” Bucky says, deflecting another little poke from Natasha. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, looking Bucky up and down. Privately, he agrees with Natasha; it’s definitely more than thirty pounds. Bucky’s always-soft jawline is even softer, a little double chin forming even when he’s not looking down. And his belly is widening out to the sides a little, rolling over his waistband at the sides as well as the front. “How much did you weigh before?” 

“Before when? Before the War, right out of boot camp, that was an all-time low. 165. I think it was a little more, when – uh, the soldier was a little more. Maybe 175.” 

“You were at least 200 when we found you,” Natasha says, poking him in his side, where a love handle curves over the top of his jeans. “Steve, you’re never going to be able to guess from way over there.” 

Which is true, so Steve stands up and drags his chair next to Bucky’s, drinking in the sight of him, so soft, so comfortable, so happy. He rests his hand gently on the top curve of Bucky’s tummy, where it mounds out under his chubby pecs, and just leaves it there for a few seconds, shocked by how firm and warm and fucking _big_ Bucky feels, through the thin t-shirt and the zippered hoodie. Then, slowly, he lets his hand slide downward, around the side and underneath, to cradle that fat swell of lower belly that’s now indisputably resting in Bucky’s lap. 

Bucky slowly sets his chopsticks down, and Steve realizes that both he and Nat are sitting as still as if he’s defusing a bomb. 

“I think I don’t care how much it is,” he says softly. “I just…I never want to stop touching you.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Natasha says, at the same time that Bucky says “ _Finally,_ ” and then they’re all laughing, and then Steve leans forward and kisses Bucky’s cheek, his mouth, his neck. He pulls Natasha’s chair closer and kisses her, too, and then she and Bucky kiss for a long time, and Steve feels like everything makes sense, at last. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a strange feeling of relief and anticipation, finally acknowledging this thing between the three of them.

In a deep, secret place, it’s a relief to Natasha that she is involved, that she hasn’t just been the catalyst for finally forcing this thing between Steve and Bucky, this thing that has been simmering between them since the 1930s, based on the way they talk about each other. She had barely been able to acknowledge it, even to herself, but she’d been scared, deep down, that maybe she would lift right out of the picture, once the two of them acknowledged the juggernaut between them. 

But now, perched carefully on the edge of a kitchen chair and leaning over to share kisses with Bucky and then Steve, and then awkwardly, messily, both of them at once, she doesn’t feel that way at all. Even when Steve and Bucky are focused on one another, entirely, they keep coming back to her, too. 

It’s a very different thing, kissing Bucky and kissing Steve. Steve is, honestly, a better kisser than Natasha would have expected. Like everything else Steve Rogers does, he throws himself into it, and he’s technically proficient enough that Natasha wonders if he googled techniques after that first escalator kiss they’d shared. His big hands slide down her ribcage, up her thighs, as their lips meet, and it’s hard to think, kissing Steve. 

Bucky is another matter. He’s lazy and slow, sucking at her bottom lip, in no rush to deepen the contact between them, like they have all the time in the world and he can’t be fussed to even lean forward over his stuffed, swollen belly to get closer to her. It forces Natasha to do most of the work in a way that somehow makes him seem not passive, just indulgent and utterly sexy. 

“I wanna lay down,” Bucky announces when she pulls back from his mouth to take a breath, and he leers at Steve over her shoulder, chubby cheeks dimpling, double chin so prominent that Natasha can’t resist leaning forward and biting that soft ring of pudge at his jaw. 

“Of course you do, I don’t know how you can even breathe,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s round gut, then tugging down the zipper of his hoodie. Natasha watches, transfixed, as Bucky’s tummy swells forward in release. His t-shirt has ridden up, revealing a few inches of soft lower belly fat, the widest curve of his big round belly exposed where it pours over his jeans and onto his thighs. 

“So let’s go,” Bucky says, grinning shamelessly. 

Natasha practically trips over herself, getting up, and holds an arm out to Bucky, who uses it to tug himself out of his chair. He probably plays it up a little bit, how full he is – but then again, he eats _a lot_ , stuffs himself so full it’s almost overwhelming most nights. Maybe he really does need help, pulling himself up when that fat, bloated belly is weighing him down. 

When she glances over at Steve, her jaw drops a little when she sees what’s in his hand – a pint of French vanilla ice cream and a spoon. 

His cheeks are pink, but he meets her eyes and smirks a little, and she has to laugh. Steve Rogers, shameless pervert. Who fucking knew? 

*

Bucky has known for a while that Steve and Natasha both get something – possibly slightly different things – out of watching him stuff himself stupid, watching his gut expand exponentially, seeing him struggle to catch his breath or find a way to sit comfortably after inhaling a ridiculous amount of food, food meant to serve a family and instead disappearing down his greedy throat. 

It still doesn’t quite sink in just how much power he has in this situation until he’s sprawled out on Steve’s big bed, pillows propped up behind him, hoodie and t-shirt tossed aside so that his fat tummy mounds up in front of him, jeans undone to let his gut roll forward onto his thighs. Steve and Natasha are sitting on either side of him, looking utterly transfixed. 

God they’re both beautiful. 

And fucking weird. 

Steve pries the lid off the ice cream and spoons up a big, melty bite. He pauses, looking from Natasha to Bucky and then down at the spoon in his hand, before he shrugs and shoves it gracelessly between Bucky’s lips. Classic Steve – when in doubt, plunge fearlessly into the breach. 

Bucky swallows a few bites in rapid succession, floating on the sensation of being fed by Steve and having Natasha’s hands on his sore stomach, before he takes the spoon out of Steve’s hand and looks at both of them. “You want me to eat this.”

It’s not a question, but Steve nods fervently. Natasha just grins, pinching a thick roll of tummy fat in her hands and squeezing, letting her sharp fingernails dig into his chub just a little. “I think you have room,” she says, winking at him lasciviously, like this is all a delicious joke. “Don’t you, Steve?”

Steve politely looks down at Natasha’s hands on Bucky’s belly fat, like he’s considering the question very seriously. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, his voice a little gravelly, and Bucky watches as Steve leans forward over Bucky’s belly and presses his mouth against Natasha’s, just a few seconds worth of gently insistent kissing. It feels like Bucky’s brain might short-circuit, watching them kiss while Natasha’s hands are on him. 

When they pull apart, both breathing fast, pupils blown, Bucky clears his throat. “I will,” he says, and his voice sounds as blown out as Steve’s, harsh and ragged. “I will, but—take this off, Nat”—he tugs at the hem of her t-shirt—“and you too, Steve. Wanna see you—wanna see you both.” 

Natasha pulls her t-shirt over her head, graceful and careless, and drops it on the floor. She’s bare beneath it, her breasts full and heavy, and it takes Bucky’s breath away, how beautiful she is. Her waist is narrow, her tummy soft and flat, but her breasts are so, so round, heavy against her ribs. She looks ethereal and gorgeous, and he hears Steve inhale harshly, too. 

And Steve—fuck, _Steve_ , tugging off his stupidly small shirt to reveal his impossibly muscled self, pale and chiseled, like he’s carved from marble. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. “You’re both so goddamned pretty.” It’s true; they’re both beautiful, as close to perfection as you could ask for in human form, both the ideal versions of their respective genders. And that, somehow, makes it even more achingly, unspeakably sexy, the way his own belly rolls forward over his unbuttoned jeans, the way his sides chunk up into thick love handles and his pecs are blurred with pudge. 

He should, probably, feel embarrassed by how he looks next to them, his left arm a shattered mess that ends at the bicep, the rest of him swollen and run to fat, thick everywhere—shit, he can _feel_ his own double chin—and he does feel embarrassed, a little. His whole body buzzes with it, a low-grade hum of spine-tingling shame that makes his dick so hard it aches. 

He’s never been so turned on in his whole fucking life. 

*

Steve can’t get enough of it, the way Bucky looks right now, so lazy and full, smiling indolently as his gaze travels over Natasha’s small, sweetly curved form and then Steve’s own tall, lean body, his gaze unreadable. He looks so good, _so_ good, even if Steve can’t figure out exactly why he likes it so much, seeing Bucky stuffed so full it’s hard to move, his belly round and firm in his lap.

Natasha takes up the spoon and straddles Bucky’s thighs, naked except for her underwear, a negligible scrap of silky black fabric that isn’t anything like as soft as her own creamy skin. He watches as she scoops out a huge spoonful of ice cream and slips it between Bucky’s lips, pulls it out slow, letting him suck the spoon clean before dipping out another bite. 

“Slow down, doll,” Bucky says, catching her hand on its way to deliver another heaping spoonful. Then, with another one of those slow smiles, he tilts his head in invitation, and Natasha leans forward, smoothing her hair back over her shoulder, to kiss him lingeringly on the mouth. They work their way through the remainder of the ice cream in this fashion, kiss after spoonful after kiss, and they’re so beautiful it almost hurts Steve to watch them. Finally, the ice cream is gone, and Natasha sets the empty container aside. 

“Help he get these damn things off,” Bucky says, tugging his jeans down over his hips, and Natasha moves back to help him pull them free. 

Steve scoots closer, slides his hand over the warm softness of Bucky’s tummy, practically mesmerized by the motion of his hand over the achingly perfect arc. 

“You’re so full,” his mouth says, without consulting his brain at all. “I can feel how full you are.” 

“Feels good,” Bucky says, covering Steve’s hand with his. “Feel so good, baby.” 

_Baby._ Something in Steve’s chest seems to give way. He cups Bucky’s face in his hands and kisses him again. 

It’s so different from kissing Natasha; Bucky’s face is rough with stubble, his lips not quite as petal-soft, and he slides his tongue into Steve’s mouth, swiping it across his top teeth. Steve has longed for this his whole life, to make this connection between himself and Bucky physical, and it’s almost overwhelming to finally feel him and taste him, the scratch of his stubble and the tenderness of his lips, their tongues bumping together in the shared space of their mouths, Bucky’s mouth cool and tasting faintly of French vanilla. It’s so sweet, so shatteringly hot, and oh _god_ he loves Bucky so much, so _much_ that he wants it never to stop. 

Then there’s the _wanting,_ deep down, an irresistible primal pull that Steve’s completely unprepared for. He’s done this before – sex, not a threesome - there’d been a few days in Paris with the Howling Commandos that he still remembers with shocking, shameful clarity. Still, this…it’s completely different. He hadn’t been in love with any of the women he’d been with, and they hadn’t loved him; it had always been Bucky. 

“Good at that, Rogers,” Bucky murmurs when they finally pull apart. “You been practicing?” 

“Must just be a natural,” Steve says, his voice only a little unsteady. 

*

“I don’t know how you two want to do this,” Bucky says, settling back against the pillows, letting his belly round out in front of him, patting it almost proudly. “But you’re going to have to do all the work.”  


“Overdid it a little?” Natasha asks, climbing back up into Bucky’s lap and resting her hands on his gut.

“I had help overdoing it.” 

“You love it,” she says. 

“So do you,” he protests gruffly, shifting underneath her. The movement makes his belly jostle a little, and Natasha can almost feel her eyes dilating, her pulse quickening. “Can’t keep your damn hands off me, woman, so don’t try to play it cool.” 

Natasha isn’t up to playing it cool, not right now, and she really can’t keep her hands off him. “So how do you want to play it, then?” she asks. Then, to Steve, “I don’t think Bucky’s up to anything too acrobatic.” 

“You first,” Steve says, touching Natasha’s back, caressing his way down her spine to her ass and squeezing. “We’ll take turns, like with the ice cream.” 

That’s so generous that Natasha feels undone. Steve wants Bucky, and her, so much he’s practically shaking with it, but she recognizes the set of his jaw and knows there’s no point in arguing. 

“Ladies first, then,” she agrees, and then Bucky rests his hand on her hip, snugging her up against his big belly, and she can’t concentrate on anything but the pounding pulse between her legs, the feeling of Bucky’s soft body against hers. She squirms even closer, and he laughs roughly, his grip on her hip tightening. “Christ,” he says. “Easy, killer.” His hand moves up her side, pausing briefly to let his thumb brush over one nipple, and he pulls her head down for another one of those lazy, easy kisses that seem to take all day. 

He’s breathing a little harder when they pull apart, and his blue eyes slide sideways to where Steve is sitting. “You too, c’mon.” 

Natasha feels the bed sink down a little under Stave’s weight, and then he’s behind her, his bare chest to her naked back, and _oh god_ this is really happening, Steve’s hands covering her breasts, sliding down between her flat midriff and Bucky’s tummy, down the front of her body to find the place where she’s hot and wet and ready, and she grinds down against his hand, needing the contact. 

“Jesus,” Steve whispers. “Jesus, Nat.” 

Bucky cups her chin in his hand and meets her eyes, his lips quirking in a cocky smirk, and she wants to return it, wants to flash him her sly, knowing grin that says she’s completely in control of what’s happening, but she just can’t. She’s not. She’s never felt less in control in her life. 

He tilts his hips under her and she feels him there, _right_ there, pressing insistently at her entrance, Steve’s index finger just touching her clit, and she sinks down around him, moaning in desperate pleasure as he fills her and fills her. 

“That’s good, doll,” he says. “God, you’re so wet, baby, that’s -” he gives a little gasp as she pushes down further, taking him deeper, “-that’s so good, yes - _oh_ \- good girl, good girl.” 

_Good girl._ Her nipples tighten impossibly harder, her body clenches and pulses, like this is all she’d ever needed to hear, this little scrap of frivolous praise. She pushes herself shamelessly onto Bucky’s cock, gasping as it sends little shivers of pleasure through her, reveling in how small and safe she feels here, Steve’s broad chest at her back, Bucky’s stuffed, round belly between her legs. She lets her head drop back onto Steve’s shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as Bucky sucks one of her nipples between his teeth, as Steve kisses and bites at her exposed throat. 

Everything about this is so filthy and wrong, and she loves it, loves the throb of Bucky inside her, the gentle pressure of Steve’s finger on her clit, Bucky’s firm grip on her hip, pulling her down onto him over and over. She slits her eyes open, gazing down at Bucky’s face, flushed and serious, like he’s trying hard not to come right away, and she loves that she’s pushing him beyond his self-control, pushing _all_ of them to the absolute limit. 

She holds back as long as she can, hovering at the brink, but it’s all too much, and she finally lets go, letting her body rush to its climax, shivering helplessly in Steve’s arms as she comes, Bucky thrusting up into her again and again, her brain flaring white as she tips over the edge. 

*

Natasha is always beautiful, but Bucky thinks he’s never seen her quite like this, desperate and undone, head thrown back against Steve’s shoulder, her body tightening around Bucky’s cock in delicious, undulating waves. She isn’t noisy – even now, almost convulsing between them, she doesn’t let herself go enough to do much more than moan – and Bucky decides, in some filthy back channel of his mind, that someday he’s going to make her come so hard she _screams_.

“That’s it, honey, there, there you go, that’s so good, honey,” Bucky murmurs, panting a little as he talks her through it, knowing instinctively that she wants to hear his voice. Steve’s eyes are locked on his, over Natasha’s shoulder, and he looks wrecked, absolutely shattered with need. Bucky can’t see Steve’s hand, but he can feel it, shoved between Natasha’s clit and the soft underside of Bucky’s belly, where he’s sensitive and sore, so very full, and _god_ , it almost hurts, that pressure, but it also feels good, every time he snaps his hips forward and presses his cock into Natasha a little more. 

When the last aftershocks wear off, Natasha slumps forward, like she just can’t hold herself up another second, and Bucky grunts. She’s small, but even her slight weight on his overfull gut is painful. 

Steve smirks a little – and when did he get so cocky, anyway? – and gently lifts her back up, leaning her body back against his own broad chest. His left hand cradles her against him, and his right slides around her, lands on Bucky’s belly. 

“You can’t lay on Bucky, he’s too full,” he tells her, and Natasha opens one eye and grins blearily down at Bucky, her hand joining Steve’s, both of them kneading gently against Bucky’s round tummy. 

*

Steve watches as Natasha untangles herself from between them, crawling up until she’s cuddled against Bucky’s left shoulder, in the space where his arm should be, that vulnerable spot that Steve can’t quite believe Bucky is letting her occupy.

“Now what?” she asks, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow and glancing between them. 

Bucky looks up at Steve and holds his gaze, and god he looks gorgeous, chubby-cheeked and double-chinned, swollen and soft and big everywhere, powerful muscles overlaid with so much softness it almost takes Steve’s breath away. 

“I—“ Steve clears his throat, doesn’t know how to continue. A part of him wants to climb onto Bucky, push himself down onto Bucky’s cock, feel Bucky inside him the way Natasha just had, but he’s not ready – he’s never done it before, and he’s too desperate, ridden the edge of an orgasm for too long, to learn something new. He could probably get off just grinding himself against Bucky’s gut, as embarrassing as that prospect would be. 

Bucky blinks, long dark lashes sweeping down like a fan, and then smiles a little, like he can read Steve like a book – which he can – and like he knows what to say to make it easy for Steve, to make him comfortable – which he does. “Won’t take much to make me come, pal,” he says easily, sliding his hand down below his swollen tummy and wrapping it around his cock. “Do me” – he pauses and slides his eyes over to Natasha, who is still curled up against him but looking like she’s starting to recover a little – “and then we’ll do you.” 

Natasha smiles at Steve, toothy but gentle, and nods, giving him silent encouragement. She curls even closer to Bucky and lazily starts rubbing the top of his belly again, her eyes on Steve, and he takes a deep breath. He knows Bucky expects Steve to jerk him off, to take Bucky’s thick, pretty cock in his hand, but he doesn’t. He leans forward and drops a kiss on the roundest part of Bucky’s tummy, trailing a few more kisses down the soft underneath side, where the skin is starting to stretch, where little pink marks have appeared, and then carefully, carefully puts his mouth on Bucky’s cock. 

He tastes like salt, like Natasha, like home, and it’s so overwhelming Steve can hardly think. 

Bucky’s voice rumbles above him, gravelly and blown out—“Christ, Steve, oh, _oh_ , that’s perfect, honey, that’s so good”—and Steve knows, on some level, that this is probably _not_ a perfect blowjob. It feels awkward, messy and wet, like there’s too much spit everywhere, and he can’t go that far down on Bucky’s cock, but he wraps his hand around the base to, maybe, make up for it, and Bucky groans, like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. 

He can feel Natasha’s small hand in his hair, not pushing him, just stroking, and god, it’s so, so good, feeling her touch him while he’s connected to Bucky like this, more intimately than they ever have been. 

He picks up a faltering rhythm, uneven but firm, and Bucky keeps up a steady stream of filthy sweet encouragement until he freezes. “Fuck, Steve, _god_ , feels so good— _shit_ , I’m gonna come,” he says, sounding choked, and Natasha’s hand lifts up from the nape of Steve’s neck, like she expects him to pull off, but he doesn’t, and Bucky’s hips snap, again and again, his tummy bumping up against Steve’s head, and he’s babbling, a broken strand of profanity and praise, as he comes. 

Steve gags a little, even though he doesn’t want to, he wants to make it good for Bucky, wants to taste him, swallow him down, be as close as they can possibly be. It doesn’t matter, though. Natasha sits up, leaning forward, and when Steve pulls off of Bucky’s cock, spluttering a little, she’s right there, pressing her mouth against his in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that makes Steve’s brain short out, so that all he can feel is her tongue against his, all he can hear is Bucky’s ragged breathing. 

“Jesus fuckin’ _Christ_ ,” Bucky gasps out, panting like he’s been running a marathon instead of lying back on an expensive mattress and letting his lovers take care of him like a king, and Steve’s lips curve into a smile against Natasha’s. He’s desperate to come—he’s pretty sure his dick has never been this hard in his entire life—but that desire, urgent as it is, is almost secondary to this, this slow-sloppy-hot kiss with Natasha while Bucky watches, the taste of both of them in Steve’s mouth, the feel of both of them against him. 

*

Natasha goes on kissing Steve, slow and sweet; he can feel her shivering a little as he sweeps his tongue into her mouth, and she slides her hand down between his legs, wrapping her fingers around his cock and stroking.

He groans into her mouth and pulls away, gasping. “Nat, I- ” 

“Shh,” she says, pushing him toward Bucky. 

Bucky grabs Steve around his hip and pulls onto his lap. Steve’s cock brushes the underside of Bucky’s belly and every muscle in his body tightens; he sets his jaw firmly as Natasha settles in behind him, planting gentle kisses on the nape of his neck, his shoulder, his back. 

“Doesn’t Bucky feel good?” she asks, her voice low and husky, her breath warm against his skin. 

“Yes,” he manages, “ _god_ , yes.” 

“Does this feel good?” Her hand slips down his spine, then lower still, between his legs. 

He rocks his hips gently against Bucky’s round, firm belly, trying to hold himself in check, not to press too hard, but Bucky pulls him closer, urging him on. 

“C’mon, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Bucky mutters, his grip tightening on Steve’s ass, his hips tilting up. “I’m not _that_ full.” 

“Hm, we’ll have to get you a snack, after,” Natasha says, doing something so exquisite with her fingers that Steve actually cries out, feels his dick twitch hard against Bucky’s body.

“ _Jesus_ , Nat,” he groans. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Steve gives a little huff of a laugh, but then Bucky is touching him, squeezing his nipples, pinching, and Natasha strokes him, touches him in places he’d never thought about being touched before, and he starts to lose himself in it, lets out a hiccupping sigh of pleasure and yields to it.

“You both feel – so good,” he says, low and rough. “Bucky – Nat – so good. _So_ good.” 

“You like that?” Bucky asks, kissing Steve’s neck, sucking a nipple between his teeth, his stubble rough on Steve’s skin, his fingers sinking into the muscles of Steve’s thigh. “You should come.” 

Natasha’s soft breasts are pressed against his back, Bucky’s belly swollen and round against his stomach, and he feels incredibly sensitive to all of it, his skin damp and tingling, so flushed, so full of both of them he feels like he might split open. “Damn it,” he murmurs, pushing harder against Bucky, desperate for the friction, needing more of it, more of Bucky, more of Natasha’s sweet, clever fingers, more of _all_ of it. 

“You gonna come?” Bucky asks, biting at him now, his nipples, his neck. “C’mon, you know you want to, come all over my belly, baby, do it. C’mon, sweetheart.” 

Then Natasha’s hair is brushing his ear, her voice right _there_ , like it’s coming from inside his own head, “Bucky’s so big now, look at him. Look at him, sweetness. Can you believe how round he looks? Touch him, touch his big, soft, fat belly, touch him,” and Steve _is_ touching him, hands on Bucky’s belly, on his soft, chubby pecs, sliding down to squeeze the rolls at his sides, and _Christ_ it’s hot, it’s the hottest thing, being this close to Bucky and Nat, naked skin to naked skin. He feels like he’s on fire, and he keeps saying their names, over and over, like a chant, “Buck - _oh Christ,_ Nat – _Buck_ -” 

“Yeah,” Bucky groans, and Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself; he buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder and grabs at the sheet and trembles all over, and Bucky murmurs, satisfied, “Yeah, you’re gonna come,” and Steve does, he starts to come, moaning loud and shocked with his mouth open, his breath coming in shallow gasps. 

Bucky’s hand wraps around his cock then, and Steve thinks he might explode, it’s so good; he squeezes and slides up and down, and Steve’s body jerks and spasms in his hand. “Oh – Jesus, Jesus, _fuck,_ oh, _oh-_ ” and then he’s just moaning incoherently into Bucky’s soft shoulder, feeling blood rushing to the surface of his skin, burning hot, as he rides out wave after wave of shattering pleasure. 

They’re quiet for a little while, Steve panting, Natasha lying limply against his back, Bucky’s arm around Steve’s shoulders, toying with a stray strand of Natasha’s hair. Finally, Natasha sits up, hand still idly stroking Steve’s back. 

“We’re definitely going to need to wash the sheets,” she says. 

*

Later, with the sheets in the wash, Natasha follows Steve into the bathroom, where Bucky’s taking a shower. Giving Steve an arch look, she slips behind the curtain.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Get your own shower, there’s no room.” But she can tell he doesn’t really mind. 

“Whose fault is that, big guy?” she asks, plucking the soap out of his hand and lathering it briskly between her hands. “Steve, c’mon, you can wash Bucky’s hair.” 

Steve pokes his head around the curtain, eyeing Bucky speculatively. “It’s bad luck, three people in the shower,” he says. 

“It’s three on a match that’s bad luck,” Bucky says. “C’mon, squeeze in.” 

It is a bit of a squeeze, Natasha and Steve fitting in around Bucky, but they manage it. Natasha rubs soapy hands over Bucky’s belly, smoothing her hands in familiar little circles over the top, the sides, the bottom, wiggling a finger in his navel. Bucky cups her face in his hand and bends down to kiss her, wet and warm and slippery. It feels good, and she loves it, the feel of Bucky’s big, soft body against hers, but then she thinks of something, something she’d wanted and hadn’t quite gotten, even with everything they’d just done together. 

She pulls away, smiling, and turns Bucky around with her hands. He lets her, turning in a tight circle to face Steve. 

“Now kiss,” Natasha says, giving Bucky a little shove. And they do. 

It’s every bit as good as she’d thought it would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> We're on tumblr at [d-lightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com) and [missjanedoeeyes](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com), so come hang out. And, as always, your comments and kudos are the elixir of life.


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